


Wheel of Westeros Book Six: Rise of Asha Part Three

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [18]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Casterly Rock, F/M, Innsmouth (Cthulhu Mythos), Lovecraftian Monster(s), Witches of Eastwick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24185626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: Three bizarre "love" stories...Euron makes a breeding slave of a young lord of the Reach, Jaime and Brienne have to rid Casterly Rock of a sexy curse, and Asha finds something strange in a cavern in the Hills of Norvos. (This one borrows heavily from Lovecraft's "Shadow Over Innsmouth" and from the 1987 film The Witches of Eastwick)
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Euron Greyjoy/Sansa Stark, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Long Haul Jon/Daenerys, Tristifer Botley/Asha Greyjoy
Series: Wheel of Westeros [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	Wheel of Westeros Book Six: Rise of Asha Part Three

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing in a limited POV style like Martin's, which is a suffocating way to write. I have thought of a lot of neat scenes that don't fit into the POV limits I set for myself, or don't move the story along quickly enough to include in the series. I will write these out if someone requests it. If you like this story, and would like to see a scene that got skipped or glossed over, OR that is in the POV of someone who is not a Stark, Targaryen, Baratheon, Greyjoy, or Lannister, let me know what you'd like to see, and I will make a Wheel of Westeros B-side out of it.

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Six: Rise of Asha Part Three**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Euron

The snow may have been falling, but in Euron World, the cherries were ripe. It was just the way to cheer young Tyrell up. He just hated to see him upset.

“You said that last one was the last one,” Willas said, tugging at the collar. Euron had made the chain heavy, but it was necessary. Willas had been given every opportunity to enjoy a collar-free existence, but he had taken advantage and put himself in this position. Euron hadn’t chained or tied him at all at first. He took away his cane, and that should have been enough, as one of his legs was about as useful as a shit-filled pastry. But never trust a reader – Rodrik should have taught him that. The first chance he got, Willas had crawled to the door, picked the lock with the pins from his brace, then shimmied on his elbows to the wall where he had propped himself up and knocked a sconce off the wall. Then he had hopped all the way to the hall while the idiots on guard puzzled over what to do about a fire. (On an island, surrounded by water – the cunts.) Euron had only just made it back from King’s Landing in time to discover that Willas had trained a horse away from its Ironborn rider in the space of two hours, and was this close to making off. Where he would have gone was anybody’s guess – unless he knew how to train a shoal of fish to carry him to the mainland. Euron put an arrow through the horse’s chest, just as he had done with Willas’s horses at Highgarden, and his dogs, and his hawks – although he regretted the hawks now. They might have come in useful. Willas had looked so pathetic with a dead horse upon his leg (the second time in his wretched life) that Euron decided he had learned his lesson. Anyway, he needed him too much to give him to the Storm just yet.

“I know what I said…I said it didn’t I? But things have progressed and I need your help. Have a cherry,” Euron said, holding out a pewter bowl piled high with the dark ripe fruits.

“Where did you get those?”

“From King’s Landing naturally.”

“In autumn?”

Willas was lucky he was so clever and fun to talk to. Otherwise, Euron would have had his tongue out long ago. He had considered drugging him to keep him placid and quiet, but he would miss the conversation. Plus, he couldn’t get hard like that, which did nobody any good. The creatures couldn’t work with a limp cock any more than a human woman could.

“Yes. In autumn. That’s what I can do, Willas. I can make cherries grow in autumn. And I do it all for you, as much as you appreciate it…”

Willas sighed darkly but took a handful of cherries anyway, and began to munch the flesh from the pits with a blank look.

“That’s a good boy,” Euron said. “And I have another special treat.”

“Wonderful…I can’t wait,” Willas said with a mouthful of cherry. He spit a pit in an impressively long arc. “Don’t tell me – I want to guess.”

_That’s more like it!_ Willas could be such fun when he was in the spirit. “You’ll never guess it, but go ahead and try,” Euron said.

“A letter,” Willas said.

Euron was truly impressed. “Now how did you know that.”

“You keep palming your doublet pocket. You’ve been doing it the past half hour.”

“Clever boy…have some more cherries. I bet you can’t guess from where...or from who.”

“Well it’s not from Cersei, because you just left her. It’s not from Asha…”

“ _Princess_ Asha you filthy rosebud.”

“It’s not from _Princess_ Asha, because you aren’t nearly excited enough. You have held still now for a good twenty seconds…I counted.”

“You’re just stalling now.”[1]

“It’s not Daenerys Targaryen either.”

Euron’s face became hot, then the room became instantly hot, as usual. “And why do you say that,” he asked through clenched teeth.

“She wouldn’t write you a letter. She’s too busy to engage in romantic trifles.”

Thunder rumbled outside the window, and the sky above Pyke would be turning dark. “You’ve a cold heart and no mistake Willas Tyrell,” Euron said. He hoped sincerely that the female creature was not only particularly ugly this time, but sharp-finned as well. A deep cut would do Willas’s face good.

“Time to guess, young lordling,” Euron said. “And now you have but one. I’ve lost my patience.”

“Lady Stoneheart?”

“Wrong…but close.”

Willas slammed his hand upon the floor. “Sansa Stark…I nearly said it, too.”

“Have another cherry and hush now…listen to this…”

_Dear Lord Greyjoy,_

_Many heartfelt thanks for your generous and thoughtful offer of allegiance. I appreciate your honest and forthright manner in admitting your union with Myrcella Lannister, and therefore I must be forthright and honest with you in saying that I believe this marriage to be a grave mistake. For your own safety and the safety of your own kingdom, I recommend you put an end to those plans as soon as humanly possible. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you the reasons, nor would I seek to injure you with the truths which I’m sure you have been made aware through other sources. I would only say that there are other options which might serve you better and entail less risk._

_Additionally, though I do appreciate your offer of Theon Greyjoy’s head, placing that visage on a pike on the gates of Winterfell, as much as it would give me great pleasure, will not solve the issue of our ruined castle or our depleted supplies. The North once again is in the hands of my family, thanks to my bastard brother, of whom you may have heard certain rumors. However, his rule comes too late to prevent the damage to our stronghold or to refill our stables and pantries. Jon Snow, while noble and powerful, cannot conjure such things out of thin air, and we now face starvation. To be frank, the Lannisters have food, gold and building materials. We do not. Cersei Lannister sleeps on silken pillows and languishes in ease and comfort. We do not. If you would offer me a head, I would prefer it be hers. You may marry Myrcella if you like, but understand a marriage to her is a marriage to Cersei, and men have regretted that marriage before, if you take my meaning. Myrcella is a generous and pliable girl, and I am sure she regrets the rift in our relationship. Such a sweet lady would be eager to make amends, but alas, her mother will never allow it. If only such an obstacle could be removed gracefully and without violence, which only begets more violence._

_Having said all that, I am looking forward to our continued correspondence and friendship. I hope that we may someday share the Seven Kingdoms in peace and understanding._

_Yours truly,_

_Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, the Vale, and the Riverlands_

“The Riverlands? Since when?” Willas asked, surprised. Cherry juice stained his lips.

“Doesn’t matter…who should I deal with first? This bastard? Or the husband?”

“The husband might go easier…the bastard is probably a hard man. Northerners usually are. Plus, he took down the Night’s Watch. That’s no mean feat.”

“Trick question. The answer is neither…” Euron sat down on the damp floor beside Willas, and laid a hand on his good leg. Willas jumped slightly and became stiff…but not in the place he needed to.

“No wonder you were so upset about losing Lady Sansa to the Imp,” Euron said, moving his hand slowly up and down Willas’s leg. “I hear she’s absolutely lovely. Darling figure. Supple, pouting breasts. Firm thighs…” He gave the leg a squeeze. “Shame you two didn’t get together.”[2] _I suppose if she wants silk pillows and gold and stone bricks, I must be the one to provide them._

Euron placed the bowl of cherries on Willas’s lap. He could hear from the sound it made that he was ready enough. Willas was a wonder. Perhaps, his Maiden god had rewarded him with a cock of steel in compensation for the lame leg. It was no wonder then that he never seemed to resent the Red Viper of Sunspear for crippling him. _Well, I’m his god now, and do I have the maiden for him…_ He pulled the little pipe from his breeches pocket and blew on it lightly, producing the sound that would have been familiar to Tyrell by now. He rolled over and straddled Willas for a moment, taking his cheeks in his hands and bringing his mouth close.

“Close your eyes…” he said, and Willas obeyed, a tear leaking from his lids.

The creature moved quickly, appearing at the door in only minutes, having walked right out of the Bay, dragging salt water and sea grass along with her. Like her sisters, she was a fabulous monster of abhorrent grotesqueness and malignity—half fish half baboon one might say. Their predominant color was a greyish-green, with white bellies. They were mostly shiny and slippery, but the ridges of their backs were scaly. Their forms vaguely suggested people, while their heads were the heads of fish, with prodigious bulging eyes that never closed. At the sides of their necks were palpitating gills, and their long paws were webbed. They hopped irregularly, sometimes on two legs and sometimes on four. Their croaking, baying voices, clearly used for articulate speech, held all the dark shades of expression that their staring faces lacked.[3] In a brief moment that fantastically horrific sound would emanate throughout the tower – a sound of amphibious pleasure as poor Willas’s seed filled her, fertilizing a clutch of eggs that would soon become an army.

Chapter 2: Jaime

The Stone Garden of Casterly Rock was looking a little rougher than Jaime remembered it, though he hadn’t spent much time in it when he had dwelled at the Rock in his youth. Occasionally he had gone to the Sept when instructed, but the Godswood of the Garden had only ever been an oddity among the giant moss-covered boulders and the ancient ferns that now stuck out like green bursts of wildfire among the fallen red leaves. Once, he and Cersei had snuck there to be together in secret, but he recalled that the moment he reached under her gown, he had gotten the sense that someone was watching. The twisted old tree with the manically frowning face had seemed to be staring at them, conveying the disgust of the Old Gods at their incest. The face seemed strangely more placid now, though the eyes still wept blood-red sap as Jaime looked on, considering what he had to do.

Things might have gone much worse when he and Brienne had arrived at the Lion’s Mouth the previous night. The men at the gate might have spied the shadows of the Blackfish and his men fifty yards behind him, or smelled the Brotherhood, who were closer still and not ones to bathe frequently. They might have refused to raise the portcullis to the likes of Brienne of Tarth, whose father was said to have bent the knee to Young Griff. _I’m endangering the mission,_ she even whispered to Jaime as the guards consulted the castellan, his cousin Damion. _I shouldn’t have come. **[4]** _Fortunately, other rumors had spread of Brienne’s valiant slaughter of the Brave Companions and other odious individuals. _We welcome Brienne the Brave to Casterly Rock_ , Damion even said. Quite an improvement from “Brienne the Beast’ to be sure.

Once inside, Jaime demanded the castle lay down arms and allow the Tully bannermen and the Brotherhood to march in behind him. He was surrendering the Rock to Brynden Tully. Edmure Tully and his wife and child were to be escorted safely to the Twins, of which Roslin was now the heir.[5] Ser Damion Lannister was stooped and sour-faced as ever, and displayed an unusual nervousness. His doublet and breeches were soiled and wrinkled, his crimson and gold cloak trimmed with mud. His white hair had grown over his ears, and his fingernails were too long and jagged. Every hall was tracked all over with dirty boot prints, the suits of armor coated with near an inch of dust, and there was a musty stench hanging in the air of every chamber and turret. Damion wrung his hands and apologized.

“If it were up to myself, I would happily surrender the castle and bear you no ill will,” the old castellan surprisingly said. “Nearly everyone has fled the Rock to avoid the curse. Either that, or locked themselves in their chambers.”

“Curse? What curse?” Jaime had looked at Brienne, whose face reflected his own dread.

“The Ironborn king’s curse,” Damion had whispered, his voice quavering at the end.

Jaime’s cheeks had burned, making the scar across his ear made by Arya Stark tingle. Littlefinger had broken the news to Jaime while he sat in a cell at Riverrun, a prisoner of Lady Stoneheart. Cersei had given their daughter to Euron Greyjoy – a last grab at power before little Aegon, the Dragon Queen, Stoneheart or the Black Bastard made short work of Lannister rule. Now sweet Myrcella would be forced to marry Greyjoy, whose army consisted not only of Ironborn men, but others reputed to be some sort of mute slaves – drones who raped and slaughtered by the hundreds but never made a sound. What made Cersei think Euron wouldn’t just murder the poor girl the moment they reached the bedchamber? Perhaps she didn’t care. Damion told Jaime and Brienne that Euron had taken the Reach by magic, driving back Griff with a storm conjured out of nothing, and now he held the Westerlands by some other magic.

“It’s a perfume,” Damion had said. “I don’t know where it comes from, but it fills the air each night at sunset, just as the sun makes it halfway into the sea.”

“A perfume…” Brienne said. “You’re cursed by perfume.” Despite all she’d seen, and the company she’d kept, she remained resistant to nonsense, for which Jaime was grateful.

“It’s not the perfume itself, but what it does…what it makes people do. You’ll see…tomorrow evening you’ll see! Here…”

He led them to a cupboard where linens were kept and yanked out a couple of dingy old napkins, faded pink with lions embroidered in gold thread, that hadn’t likely seen a table in years. “At dusk, wrap these about your faces…and for the sake of all the gods, keep to your rooms – alone!” Damion’s face grew very red and his eyes darted back and forth between Jaime and Brienne.

“I beg your pardon, cousin,” Jaime said. “But what exactly does this scent do that we’re so afraid of?”

Damion grew even redder. “It makes one lose all modesty and decency and…lust uncontrollably for…fornications, and…oh it’s just too shameful!”

Jaime looked at Brienne and saw she was trying not to smile, which made Jaime smile.

“Cousin, I doubt this is as serious as you make it out to be. Are you sure this isn’t some excuse…not yours, of course, but the young stewards and soldiers – well. Now that my father is gone, you know, I’m sure there’s been a bit of mischief with the scullions and maids and so forth, which is natural.”

“Mischief! Natural!” Damion shook his head in frustration. “Oh my dear cousin. I’ve nothing against a good tumble…” He stepped up close to Jaime and stared sternly into his eyes. “But there is _danger_ here.[6] Now if you can convince Daven to give up the castle, I recommend you do so and quickly. Before we’re all damned!”

After that, Damion stomped off. Jaime hadn’t seen him since and assumed he’d locked himself in his own chamber. Daven had greeted them stiffly and refused to surrender. Jaime firmly informed him that they could not hope to keep it against their enemies. Besides, Jaime was Lord of Casterly Rock and he demanded it. He hoped he wouldn’t have to admit that if they did not turn the castle over to the Blackfish, Lady Stoneheart and her followers would burn him alive along with every remaining Lannister. At some point, he realized it wouldn’t have mattered. Daven seemed to be half-mad with indignation, and proceeded to lock Jaime and Brienne with himself in the chambers that had once been Jaime’s mother and father’s. It was a stately, gorgeous room, appointed with red velvet and gold brocade, and Daven had kept it reasonably clean and neat, which was more than Jaime could say for Daven himself. He still hadn’t cut his hair or beard since the battle at Oxcross when his father had been slain in battle. Robb Stark had executed the man upon whom he was supposed to take his revenge, having sworn to grow his hair out until he did. Deprived of the opportunity, his yellow hair hung all the way down to the floor in two thick braids, and his beard fell freely over his chest to his groin.

That night, Jaime had slept on a pile of pillows on the floor while Daven took the bed and Brienne took the old velvet fainting couch. In the morning, his cousin let them out, but warned them to be back in that same chambers immediately after supper without delay, napkins tied around their faces as Damion had instructed. _If you aren’t here, I will find you,_ he told them. He would undoubtedly let the Queen know what Jaime and Brienne were up to.

After they broke their fast on some cheese and apples they found in a larder, Jaime and Brienne considered their next move. Only Daven stood in the way, and with Jaime’s help, Brienne was convinced she could take him. Jaime knew, however, that Daven would die before giving the castle up, and that gave him pause. He had let Cersei live in avoidance of making himself a kinslayer. He had been thinking of Myrcella, but what good had that done his daughter now? He had a chance for honor in giving the castle over to the Blackfish, whose loyalty was with Sansa and her sister, but what of this perfume curse? Whatever it did, it had been enough to turn the castle upside down. At last, he and Brienne had decided to split up and search the castle for the source of this odor. If they offered to get rid of it in exchange for surrender, perhaps Daven would give up the castle and there would be no need to kill him or anyone else.

However, neither he nor Brienne had any idea what they should be looking for. Brienne searched the lower levels of the castle while Jaime searched the upper, and while there was no shortage of strange sights (including a half-dozen pigeon pies laid out in a row with the middles mysteriously dug out, a pair of women’s smallclothes neatly folded on the head of a lion statue, and two arse prints in the dust that coated a tapestry), Jaime didn’t see how any of it could be the source of the nefarious perfume.

He ended up in what used to be Cersei’s chambers as a girl, finally, finding it unoccupied, dark and cold. He spent the better part of two hours fingering wistful memories of feelings he no longer had. The silken shifts and nightgowns. Soft woolen stockings. A looking glass covered with brown tarnish. A gold-handled hairbrush with a few yellow strands still clinging. A tiny porcelain tea set painted with red and yellow chrysanthemums. Dozens of dollies of all sizes, with gold hair made of yarn or horsehair, and sometimes human hair, and glass beads for eyes that stared blankly at him. Cersei’s favorite was a cloth doll with a porcelain face that had hair almost white, like a Targaryen’s. Her limbs and body were realistically sewn to look chubby like an infant’s, and her name was “Baby Beth”[7] as Jaime recalled. In a desk drawer, he found Cersei’s paints and inks, and several pictures that she had drawn with her childish hands. Pictures of herself mostly, some with Jaime, some with giant roaring lions, some with dragons. One in particular was of girl on a dragon with a Targaryen prince. Jaime had discovered this one day while snooping just as he was doing now. Cersei had told him it was Jaehaerys and Alysanne, but he knew it was meant to be her and Rhaegar. She had promised to burn it. Evidently she never did.

There were many brightly colored small glass bottles of perfume on the vanity in the corner, all with stoppers coated in dust. Jaime took up one stopper and held it close to his nose for a moment. Violets? Gardenias? _Who cares._ He flung the stopper and the bottle to the floor where they shattered into pieces. He then took each of the other little bottles one by one and smashed them against the cold stone floor, where they disintegrated. Rivulets of perfume flowed everywhere, filling the air with overpowering, sickly sweetness. Jaime didn’t feel like fornicating though – in fact, he felt miserable. He ran out and kept running until he was in the Stone Garden, where he plunked down on one of the huge granite rocks and caught his breath. His gold hand sat in his lap, and he stared at it a while, feeling very alone. Suddenly, the air in the Godswood became icy cold, and a tiny snowflake landed on the hand, taking a couple of seconds to melt.[8]

Jaime looked up to see sparse swirls of snow drifting in circles around him, and in front of him, a tall figure enveloped in flames that turned from blue to red and back again. It was Prince Rhaegar, his silver hair blowing wildly about his head. _Have you seen him,_ the shade said in a stunted, barely audible voice. _My boy. My little one._ Jaime blinked, feeling this must be a dream – that Cersei’s old perfumes had gone to his head. The shade of the prince drew nearer.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime said. “I truly am. But look at me now…” He held up his gold hand. _Help him. My son. My little one. He cannot be lost._

“Your son is at Dragonstone. He’s winning. He’ll soon be king.” The snow began to fall thicker and faster, and frost crept over the rock atop which Jaime sat.

_No. He is at Winterfell. You must not fail him._

“Winterfell?”

_Find the elixir in Baby Beth. Then go to Winterfell. Help him. My little son._

Then it was as if someone blew, and Rhaegar was snuffed out like a candle flame. The air warmed again, and the snow and frost melted away. Jaime could hear the sound of a swallow chittering. He realized it was well past suppertime, and his stomach was growling. Furthermore, a heavenly, floral smell was wafting into his nostrils that made him think instantly of Brienne. It was the most enchanting smell he had ever experienced. He found her at last, a napkin tied around her face, carrying an armful of pears and half a loaf of old bread. She looked like some sort of bandit, and Jaime laughed. He’d forgotten all about putting on the napkin.

“Jaime! Did you find anything? Your cousin is no doubt on the hunt for you,” Brienne said. “I found supper, such as it is. These pears are right on the edge.”

Jaime realized her voice was quite lovely, almost like music. He walked over and stood very close to her, remembering that in Stoney Sept she had confessed that she loved him. He felt very strongly like taking off her clothes. He had seen her nude before, in the bath when they had been captured together. He hadn’t thought so at the time, but she was exquisite. He longed suddenly to see her bare breasts again. He reached for the napkin she wore, tugging it gently at the corner.

“Take this off,” he said, feeling very inarticulate all of a sudden.

Brienne slapped his hand away. “You put yours on. Did you find anything or no?”

“It’s in one of Cersei’s old dolls. Come now, I want to see your face…” He placed a hand gently on her neck under the chin, but again she slapped it away.

“What doll? Where? It’s too late now…we’ve got to get to our room before Daven puts an arrow in both of us.”

“The Others take Daven…” Jaime looped an arm around Brienne’s bulky waist and pulled her to him, making her drop the pears and bread on the floor. “Take that thing off so I can see your face…”

His idea to kiss her was immediately thwarted by her hand swiftly pinning him against the wall at his neck. She held him there, pulling a napkin from the pocket of her jerkin.

“Put. This. On,” she said, her fingers clamping tightly on his throat.

“All right now, just relax.”

He took the napkin from her, and she released him while he covered his face, tying it at the back of his head. They picked up the pears, and the bread, but Jaime’s mouth was watering for Brienne. He wanted to touch her hair, and couldn’t stop his hands from reaching up to do so repeatedly, feeling its softness for only a second before she batted him roughly away. She hurried them along to the Lord’s bedchamber, taking several large bites out of a pear beneath the napkin and chewing noisily. The sound filled Jaime with an insane ardor, and his mind became filled with images of kneeling at the edge of his father’s bed, his face between Brienne’s enormous muscular thighs, licking her womanhood voraciously and making the same sound as her eating that pear. Despite the napkin, his hands kept drifting to her, and she kept knocking them out of the way, every once and while showering him with a barrage of light punches to get him to stop. He did so only when they arrived at the bedchamber to find Daven seated staring numbly at the hearth, the glow of the fire revealing his face was shiny with sweat. He wasn’t wearing a napkin, but it was clear he didn’t feel the way Jaime did. He looked almost green, and he was babbling to himself under his breath.

“We found the source of the perfume…tell him Jaime,” Brienne announced, slapping Jaime’s reaching hand away. Images were coursing through his mind of kissing Brienne’s throat and breasts and belly, of her moving up and down as she rode his cock like a destrier, of _her_ taking _him_ , strangely, him bent over a wine barrel.

“What was your bedchamber like on Tarth, when you were a girl? Did you have any dollys?” Jaime asked her, hardly believing the nonsense coming out of his mouth, unable to control it.

“I used them for target practice….”

_Simply wonderful._ Jaime could no longer smell the perfume, but he still couldn’t stop gazing at her.

“Look,” Brienne was saying to Daven. “The perfume is coming from a doll in an upper bedchamber…if you could allow us out, we could retrieve it and destroy it.”

“I’m thinking you were a clove girl. The orange-blossom and clove thing…what was it called cousin? Some Valyrian name.” Jaime was trying to imagine what Brienne smelled like when she was younger. It was actually hard to imagine her as a girl.

“I suppose it doesn’t concern you that they’re selling people into slavery along the western coast,” Daven interjected suddenly. He sounded as if he’d been crying. “In the open, as if the law didn’t exist. Our own bannermen’s children are being sold like…” He gagged and convulsed briefly, and a gurgling sound came from within him. “…cattle to market in broad daylight,” he said.

Brienne looked awestruck. “I can’t understand a word either one of you is saying,” she said. “Not one bloody word.”

“Children are being plucked from their beds, and… _hurk_ …” Daven convulsed and a tiny, round object of a ruddy brown color emerged from his lips. It looked like a pit – a cherry pit. Daven seemed as alarmed about it as Jaime and Brienne were, and yet he kept talking. “…being sold as slaves in broad daylight.” Suddenly a long thin object emerged from between his lips…a cherry stem. Then he ejected a handful of reddish-brown pits with a retching sound. Jaime felt as if he was having a bizarre dream.

“Are you quite all right, my lord?” Brienne asked.

“He’s trying to get inside me, my lady. He’s trying to use me. And these women he’s using them too. Myrcella, Daenerys Targaryen, the Greyjoy princess, Lady Stark, the Hangwoman. All of them. He wants to get inside all of us here with his curse,” Daven said, nervously rubbing his neck and chest.

“Who?” Jaime asked. “Euron Greyjoy?”

Daven rose and began to pace the room, rubbing his neck and chest more and more frantically. “He gets inside us. Like man gets in a woman. _Tickle tickle. Diddle diddle_ …”

“Calm down, my lord,” Brienne said.

Jaime could see she was disturbed. As Daven crept toward the two of them, Jaime on instinct pulled Brienne against him protectively. Naturally, she threw herself off from him, but she didn’t go far.

“The gods fashioned us in the image of goodness and look what we’ve become… _animals gone mad_ ,” Daven said, and suddenly lunged, growling, at Jaime and Brienne. Now it was Brienne who clutched Jaime against her protectively, shielding his neck with her huge arms.

“Devouring the world and each other!” Daven kept on, his eyes roving wildly.

Jaime had only ever seen such behavior from one man, and he had killed that man in his own throne room.

His cousin had been hunched over, yanking at his beard, but he now stood straight. “I know who he is, Jaime….”

Then Daven convulsed violently and retched, at high propulsion, a stream of slimy reddish vomit, containing what appeared to be over a thousand clean cherry pits.

“Cousin,” Jaime said, flabbergasted. “What have you been eating?”

Daven held himself up by the back of the fainting couch, now covered in vomit, a look of consternation and helplessness on his face. “These…poor women I have to warn them…he’s going to propagate cousin,” he said in shock-weakened voice. “He’s going to take their love and continue to destroy the world with it!”

“ _Who?_ ” Jaime asked.

Daven began again to rock back and forth with violent convulsions, a gurgling, rumbling noise growing louder in his gullet. At last, a jet of ruddy vomit streamed forth from him, projecting with such force that it knocked a decanter from a table to the floor. He began snarling like a trapped animal… _a trapped lion_. Jaime and Brienne looked at each other.

“Let’s call it a day,”[9] Jaime said.

So Daven of House Lannister met his end as painlessly as the kingslayer could muster, after which he took the key from his cousin’s pocket and closed his eyes. He and Brienne ran directly to Cersei’s room and seized Baby Beth. The smell of the perfume was so strong coming from its porcelain face that the napkins began to be ineffective. Brienne didn’t even attempt to stop Jaime’s hands wandering her back and hips, as long as it didn’t impede her mission, even returning a squeeze or two of Jaime’s chest. She first tried to smash the doll’s face, but to their amazement, it would not break. Jaime had an insane wish that Cersei was there to see Brienne bludgeoning her dolly. _Throw it into the sea_ , he said at last. The night had been a horror, but somehow he felt like laughing.

They ran toward the west end of the castle overlooking the Sunset Sea, to toss the doll from the great stone verandas into the abyss. As they entered the vast western ballroom, they were stopped short by a sight unlike either of them had ever seen. About fifty people, maybe more, were writhing naked on the ballroom floor. Men lay on top of women, who lay on top of men. Men mounted men who were mounting women. Women sat on men, as other men entered their mouths. There were two men taking one woman, who was taking another woman with her fist. Women serviced women while being serviced by more women or by men. It was like a terrible braided rope of flesh knotted together. Sounds of moaning, gasping and slurping echoed obscenely against the walls.

Brienne pulled off her napkin and Jaime’s, and flung him by the collar against a wall, kissing him ferociously and passionately for several seconds. Then she wrenched herself free with a mighty groan, tucked the doll under her arm, and ran in a mad dash to the veranda. She hurled the doll in the air with such mighty force that the wind actually caught it and carried it away. Brienne ran back and careened into him, their arms locking together. They kissed with wild avarice for several minutes, and didn’t even notice as the others in the ballroom slowly stopped their orgy. Jaime and Brienne remained in each other’s arms and watched when the crowd dispersed: both nobles and smallfolk clutching their clothes against their nakedness in shame and horror, hiding their faces and running away. [10]

“The signal…it’s time,” Brienne said.

Chapter 3: Asha

The Hills of Norvos were deathly quiet when Asha, Theon and Tris came upon the wolf devouring its human prey. They might have missed its grey coat among the trees if it weren’t for the blood around its mouth. They had been riding along placidly for hours in a southerly direction, breathing in the smell of moist soil and decaying leaves, and taking in the beauty of the autumn leaves, all vermilion, bright yellow and fiery orange shot through with the occasional dark evergreen. Birds sang cheerily above their heads, and Tris and Asha joined in with a little tune they had sung together when they were children:

_We’ve sailed all the seas for wenches and mead_

_And told great tales of the huntmasters’ deeds_

_The quest for a drum of the famous old spiced_

_Has shown us the wrath of leviathan’s might_

_We went back through time to get more rum_

_Though we end up shipwrecked having no fun_

_But heavy metal pirates we must be_

_So give all your beer and your rum to me_![11]

They stopped short when the splash of red broke the mossy brown and golden yellow of the grove through which they were passing, having noticed already that the horses were nervously whickering and slowing down. Asha dismounted and looked through the glass to see the smallish lone wolf, who was in fact devouring a man. They let him finish his meal and drag away the remains to the east, then slowly approach the gore-soaked spot. It was strange that a man should be so deep in these wooded hills all alone, but the fact that a wolf had him suggested he had been in or near a cavern, as bears and wolves were said to reside there, sheltering in – or perhaps guarding the secrets of – that famous network of caves.

They drew near and saw nothing was left except a bloody severed foot, what might have been a bit of intestine, and a garment splashed with gore that was clearly a fringed _tokar_ of the type worn by the masters in Yunkai and by some in Mereen. A few days earlier, Theon had been socializing with new clients outside of Volantis when he was told of a rumor that some “harpy’s eggs” may be nesting somewhere within the Hills of Norvos, using the caverns to hide out while they worked to sabotage Daenerys Targaryen’s rapidly growing rule. They had already fomented some discontent among some Volantene and Pentosi nobles about the trade route and docking restrictions set up to control the bloody flux. Theon had coaxed some investors into funding several new plantations along the Rhoyne and the Lorathi coast where they could begin producing “Falia’s Bane” in earnest. Many of these investors were former slavers, who were tired of losing revenue to the Queen’s reforms, and beginning to accept that times had changed.

The Queen’s longtime enemies, the Sons of the Harpy, were stuck in their ways, however, which was as much a thorn in Asha’s side as it was in Daenerys’s. The Queen was the biggest investor of all, and they were on their way to a permanent relationship that would free Asha and her men of her uncle Euron’s clutches once and for all. If they played it right, they’d be more than successful dope traders, however. Asha could see herself with a stewardship of a free city, the likes of which the Queen had given her previous advisors – perhaps Lorath, or even something like Myr or Tyrosh. Theon thought the plan was to give Lys to Jorah Mormont, and Victarion might be granted all three of Myr, Tyrosh and Lys – but Asha said she’d see about that. Tris wrinkled his brow over this ambition, not because he wouldn’t love to see her in a high seat, but because the tribulations of ruling were so often greater than the triumphs. _Can you imagine being Daenerys? Of dealing with this shit day in and day out?_ He had a point, but Asha couldn’t help admiring the dragon queen much more than she pitied her.

At any rate, it would be all for naught if these harpy eggs got their way, so they determined to search the Hills of Norvos and the caverns therein in hopes of locating them, that they might be smoked out with dragonfire at Daenerys’s command. A lace merchant, with whom Theon had gotten high for several nights, gave him a map of the hills depicting numerous known openings to the caverns in exchange for an ounce of the Bane. Though his coordinates were correct, the caverns they had explored so far had revealed no one, with the exception of a very nasty black bear protecting her cubs, whom they had barely outrun on their horses once they made it out again. They brought with them a length of sharking line that stretched 150 yards, which they would tie to the nearest tree or shrub outside the cave’s mouth before going in. This way, they wouldn’t be lost, although in most instances they barely used half the line before the openings became too small for them to crawl through, and they could safely assume it wasn’t a good fit for their enemies.

Asha wished she had brought her new lady-in-waiting, Lauren of Lorath, who was so tiny she could have at least squeezed through and taken a peek. It was exciting to delve into those caves. It reminded Asha of playing treasure hunt as a child, when she and Tris would go spelunking in the small caves on the beaches of the Iron Islands, pretending to look for caches of gold and jewels. It was in a little cave full of horseshoe crab carcasses, that they had been caught playing a dirty game by the maester, Asha had reminded him. Tris had turned pink and laughed like a little boy until his big eyes disappeared.

The wolf hadn’t been dining on his victim anywhere near any cavern on their map, but they followed the drag marks through the bed of dead leaves anyway to see where the man might have been seized. The marks ended in a very shady glen, speckled with sunlight from the gaps between the trees: elms and birches with yellow whispering leaves and hawthorns lurid with clusters of little red berries. Huge ferns, jack-in-the-pulpit and lush patches of trillium grew thickly around fallen trees coated with bright green moss and big white toadstool fungus. Theon spied it there – a dark opening in a cluster of grey boulders emerging from the ground. The map showed nothing, but they left their horses and strapped on their packs anyway, tying the line to a birch sapling and lighting their torches before ducking their way in. The entryway was like the others: fusty and dark, with piles of animal bones in any corner and a floor squishy with bat droppings. The corridor led to another opening, taller but narrow. Tris picked up the skull of some critter and hurled it into the opening, to wake whatever legion of bats slept there and send them flying out, but this time, nothing emerged. Perhaps something had already roused them…

The chamber they entered was so dark and close that the torch light reflected against nothing but their three faces. The hollows in Theon’s gaunt cheeks looked ever deeper, and Tris’s eyes glowed a shade of periwinkle Asha had never noticed. Something underfoot _crunched_.

“Feels like we’re stepping on oat biscuits,” Theon said.

“I highly doubt it’s oat biscuits, brother,” said Asha.

“Stop moving,” Tris said, “Listen.”

They stopped still and opened their ears to the silence, which they soon realized wasn’t silence at all, but a dry scratching and rustling with the faintest chirps throughout. Asha lowered her torch toward the ground to reveal a hoard of dark, crawling things: centipedes, roaches, and beetles of huge size, scuttling over their boots and each other. A huge centipede was making its way up her leg, and she struck it away with a guttural yelp. Tris hollered, _Move **[12]**_ and they ran blindly forward until they met a blank wall, spotted with black beetles and buzzing roaches. Frantically, kicking the creatures from their legs and swearing, they searched along the wall for an opening. The only one they found was at shoulder level, and just big enough to crawl through easily if they could give each other a leg up. Asha and Theon helped Tris up first, as he was the heaviest, but as soon as he got a look, he screamed and fell back, landing in the hive of bugs with a sickening, crispy thud.

“Snakes! Hundreds of them…” he said.

“Poisonous?” Asha asked.

“Fuck if I know!”

In the end, they chose snakes over the bugs, which were already creeping under their clothes and pinching them, if not laying eggs in their packs. Once Theon and Tris pulled her in, Asha saw them: a winding, writhing swarm of black and brown snakes.[13] They were mostly rather small, but to see so many together was still a sight to chill one’s bones. Some even seemed to be eating the others, and some seemed to be devouring themselves by their own tails. The creatures didn’t really seem to notice them at all, and fled quickly from the fire of the torches. The next opening was at hip level and over the top of a couple of huge stalagmite mounds, which they dashed over in such haste that if any of the snakes were poisonous, they wouldn’t find out. The next chamber would be wider, they knew by the fresher air that flowed out of the opening. It was in fact a rather large open space, with a ceiling near fifty feet high, walls almost white in color, and no dark creeping things to be seen once they had shaken off the bugs that still clung to their clothes, dancing like fools at a wedding feast. Asha realized, as she plucked the last beetle from her breeches, that a snake had bitten her at the hip, probably when Tris was pulling her through the opening. She said nothing to Tris and her brother, who stood staring at the cave wall at something enthralled.

A large, clear pool in the midst of the chamber, fed by moisture trickling from stalactites above, reflected the light of their torches onto the wall. Depicted there, as clear as the markings in a book, were drawings chipped into the stone and dyed with something that might have been squid ink and red ochre. There was a huge kraken with its tentacles formed into a spiral, rising from white-capped waves. Next to that, a black-winged dragon spewed an enormous fire also in the shape of a spiral. Finally, a wolf with a gigantic maw wrapped its jaws around a circle that might have been the moon. Beneath all was a giant weirwood tree, complete with blood-red leaves and tangles of black roots that reached down to the cavern floor. Asha found herself staring at the maniacal face drawn on the tree’s massive white trunk, feeling as though it was laughing at her.

Suddenly, something yanked at her ankle and pulled, and Asha fell into the water of the cave pool, which was not only very cold, but deep – much deeper than it looked. Furthermore, whatever had grabbed her was pulling her further and further into the depths. Horror-struck, she looked down to see a tentacle, silver in color with dark pink suckers, wrapped around her leg. She could hear the desperate screams of Tris and Theon growing fainter and fainter, and she soon found herself face to face with a huge kraken, magnificent and graceful, his one red eye glaring sternly. Her chest felt ready to burst from lack of air, but she was far from the surface – it was as if the pool had no bottom at all. Exhausted, she finally gave in to the water, letting it enter her nose and mouth and fill her lungs.

Death should have taken her then, but in that moment, Asha no longer felt exhausted. She felt invigorated, alert and quick as a barracuda. She found herself breathing the water as though it were air, and the kraken let her go and propelled himself away with his eight mighty arms. Asha swam after him, unable to keep up, but following the trail of silvery bubbles he left in his wake. As she pulled herself through the water, she felt as if her fingers were webbed, as if a fin had grown out of her spine, keeping her straight and steady. Soon she came upon a huge pyramid beneath the water, on top of which the kraken rested. Above him, a crimson heart wreathed in flame shone down, revealing the kraken’s crown of coral and clamshells. _A fire in the water?_ Asha mused in wonderment. She swam up, up, up to the top of the pyramid, and just as she came face to face with the silver kraken, a light poured into her eyes, blinding her.

Suddenly, she was in the cavern again, and Theon was holding her in his skinny arms. She was soaking wet, and coughing.

“Two hours!” Theon said.

“What?” Asha blinked the spots from her eyes and spit water.

“That’s how long you were under the water!”[14]

_That’s impossible_ , Asha thought. It had only felt like minutes. Yet there was a tiny fire burning not far from the pool, filling the cave with the smell of smoke and cooked squirrel meat. Tris was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Tristifer?” Asha asked.

In the same moment, she noticed the sharking line ran from the opening that had led from the snake chamber into the pool. Asha pushed Theon away and crawled to the edge of the water, feeling clumsy and heavy again. The line went directly down and then just disappeared.

“A poison dart struck you coming from the pool…there’s no other way out other than to go back, so Tris thought…” Theon stopped and looked sadder even than usual. “That was over an hour ago.”

“A poison dart…” Asha said, staring at the line unmoving in the depths. She reached down and pulled up her jerkin up to show the skin where the snake had bitten her. It hadn’t even broken the skin – the thing had pinched her in fright, that was all.

Asha remembered that day in the crab cave with Tris when they were but twelve years old. They were starting to outgrow games of pretend, but still liked to go exploring the shores of the Islands, looking for pools of starfish, dead jellyfish that could still sting, and remnants of glass bottles that had worn smooth like polished gems before they washed up on the sand. In that cave, however, they discovered a different kind of treasure. Asha was developing, and she was excited to see what Tris would do when he saw her new budding breasts. Another boy might have wretched in disgust, or grabbed them and kneaded them like bread dough. Tris, however, walked his fingers from her hipbone up to her nipple very lightly, and slow. Then he gently ran his fingers over the nipple, and like magic, the center of it became firm and bumpy, which she hadn’t yet seen it do. She remembered he had given it a little kiss then, so innocent, except for how it had made her feel.

Asha looked down into the pool where not a shadow was moving, and screamed.

[1] Reiner, Rob. _The Princess Bride_ , Twentieth Century Fox, 1987.

[2] Zucker, David, Jerry Zucker and Jim Abrahams. _Airplane_! Paramount, 1980.

[3] Lovecraft, H.P. _The Shadow Over Innsmouth_ , 1931. www.hplovecraft.com.

[4] Kasdan, Lawrence & George Lucas. _Return of the Jedi_ , Lucasfilm, 1983.

[5] Benioff, David and D.B. Weiss, _Game of Thrones_ , Season 6, Episode 8: “No One,” HBO, 2016.

[6] Miller, George. _The Witches of Eastwick,_ Warner Bros, 1987.

[7] <https://www.pinterest.com/pin/80572280804404547/>

[8] Benioff and Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 7, Episode 7: “The Dragon and The Wolf,” HBO, 2017.

[9] _The Witches of Eastwick_

[10] Süskind, Patrick. _Perfume: The Story of a Murderer_ , Penguin, 1987.

[11] Alestorm, “Drink,” _Captain Morgan’s Revenge,_ Napalm Records, 2008.

[12] Spielberg, Steven, _Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom_ , Paramount, 1984.

[13] Spielberg, Steven, _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ , Paramount, 1981.

[14] Burton, Tim. _Beetlejuice_ , Geffen, 1988.


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